


Happy Fucking Birthday

by shutterbug



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: Birthday, Drabble, Gen, One Shot, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2020-03-02 19:40:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18817669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shutterbug/pseuds/shutterbug
Summary: Greg finds a birthday message.Set sometime in S1.





	Happy Fucking Birthday

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CelestialSoot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CelestialSoot/gifts).



> First fic in this fandom. It's not so great. Have mercy.
> 
> A birthday fic for Soot-and-Snide a.k.a. GrumpyQueer, a very special person to me.

Greg skulked into the office at seven a.m. Seven, _ante meridiem._ Seven, before midday. That’s what the Latins--no, the _Romans_ \--would have said.

Only one Roman mattered around here.

And they probably wouldn’t have said it like that. Maybe not in that _exact_ way. But. You know.  More or less. Roman  _definitely_ wouldn't have said it like that. 

It didn’t matter.

Relief ballooned inside him when he arrived at his cubicle. His bare cube, as if today wasn’t special. As if he wouldn’t be there for very long. But maybe he would. Who knew? He sure as hell didn’t.

He looked at his monitor, his keyboard, his stapler--the fucking thing never _worked_ \--and sat down in his chair. Nothing out of the ordinary. Thank fucking Christ.

When he opened his desk drawer, he threw his weight back into his chair, forcing it--and him--to wheel clear to the opposite side of his desk.

Before he tried to propel himself into another galaxy, he’d spotted a sloppy, hasty scrawl on a plain yellow Post-It.

Probably just Marcia in Communications accusing him of stealing her yogurt again. She ate plain yogurt. Who in the hell liked _plain_ yogurt? Add some berries or something, Marcia. Jesus.

But as he crept back toward the open drawer, the handwriting--and words--became recognizable. He plucked the note from its hidden little tomb and brought it into the sunlight, grinning as his gaze passed over the message.

_Happy fucking birthday._

_Tom_

Greg slipped the note into his interior coat pocket and carried it around for the rest of the day.


End file.
